


Against Type

by palimpsestus



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:58:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palimpsestus/pseuds/palimpsestus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They all know Corvo Attano, roguish Lord Protector from Serkonos. They all hear the rumours about Corvo Attano, Empress's trusted friend. They all believe they know what he would choose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against Type

He takes Cecelia to his bed. 

 

She is shaking with fear when he lays his hand on her bare shoulder and she weeps when he treats her as gently as he would any fine lady. It takes soft whispers and softer hands, determined intent and, he suspects, no small amount of his reputation to bring her tears to an end, to make her suck in her sobs through her teeth and screw her eyes closed in a moment's bliss. 

 

He did not take her to bed to forget his own troubles, of that he could be certain. She hadn't enough experience, skill or confidence to touch his body, asides from a few callused gropes. But he hadn't been inside a woman for over a year. Even a frightened, impoverished, serving girl was enough to give comfort.

 

Frightened, improverished, serving girl. One who would never have thought for a moment that he would find her in the empty bar, run his fingers over the knuckles of the hand she rested atop a dustcloth. One who only gave a strangled simper when he leaned in close to murmur that she was beautiful, that he wanted her, He. Wanted. Her. The frightened, impoverished, serving girl responded in the only way she could, and so he took her to his bed on silent feet and laid her down. 

 

When he had finished, she rolled away, her nude form lit by golden lamplight as it slipped out from under the thin sheets. Her pale skin was gilded silver and she stooped, resting her bad knee against the worn floorboards as she collected the shirt he had peeled away from her shivering skin. He reached for her, clasping her around her wrist and pulling her back. The springs in the mattress squeaked and dug into his spine. He settled her against his side and embraced her, letting his eyes close.

 

She did not think he would want to keep her for the night. She did not believe she was worth the attention of the former Lord Protector. 

 

He might have chosen Callista. She certainly received more than her fair share of his smiles and his time. She cared for Emily as well as any mother would, offered her all the affection one could offer a little lady. Callista who would have expected, _demanded_ gentleness and caring words. Callista's delicate coat that he would have unbuttoned slowly, noticing that the tiny buttons were enamel, not pearl, that the fabric was cotton, not silk, and that her caring for Emily was constrained by lack of blood. Callista who Curnow had been dropping hints about for the whole voyage. 

 

Cecelia tried to remain frozen beside him, a rigid, unassuming dolly in his arms, unmoving even as the rats scuttled over the slate rooftiles. He could feel her relax as sleep stole over her, the desperately needed sleep that followed a long day's work. He watched her pale skin in the flickering light of the lamps, the oil of the deep beasts burning in the air. 

 

Lydia would have enjoyed what he had to offer, like so many saucy women over the years who had given winks and offered smiles and promised he could have an hour or so of fun if he'd choose them. He had ever been in favour with those women in court, women who liked his look and liked his manners. Women who liked the way he bowed before them and helped them with their overwrought masks during balls. Women who loved his attention to the Empress, his duty to her safety, the way he would inevitably turn them down because he was guarding their ruler and leader. 

 

He couldn't risk someone seeing him sneak off with a beautiful lady, then they might take the opportunity to hurt the Empress. Someone so devious was undoubtedly watching a woman as beautiful as yourself  .  .  .  this last said with seriousness, with cheekiness, depending on the woman and her state when he rejected her. 

 

Cecelia slept now, her red hair splayed on the flat, battered pillow, uneven in length and greasy. She smelled of oil and dust. She snored softly and would be mortified if she knew. None of those women in court would have picked Cecelia for him, and that is why he sought her out that night. He could hear the heart beating in the pocket of his coat, neatly hanging on the back of the closest chair. What would the heart think of this scene? He could feel Cecelia's heart fluttering through her ribs, tapping a staccatto rhythm against his forearm. And he could feel his own, slower, stronger, in the cold, hard place inside him he had tried to kill. 

 

It had been so, so long since he had held Her in his arms, looked at her milk white skin beneath the sheets, kissed her lips and stared into her eyes, felt her warm beneath his palms and around him and against him and with him . . .

 

Cecelia could never remind him of an Empress, and yet her skin was so pale, and she was so tentative, like Jessamine on the second Fugue feast, when her body was changed by Emily's birth and she had half believed the rumours he had constructed about his personal life. 

 

What would Cecelia think if she knew she was only the second woman he had ever had in his bed? Would she believe it? Would she know that since he was sixteen years old, he had loved only one woman and only when the stars would not see. Would Cecelia ever compare herself to an Empress, or would she prefer to believe Lydia's stories about him and the Golden Cat, prefer to believe that?

 

He inched to the side, extending one bruised arm out behind him, fingers clutching at the damp fabric of his coat. In the cold attic it would soon dry, but it was heavy and he had to move slowly so as not to topple the chair or rouse his bedpartner. His fingers brushed it at last, the cold, thumping token of affection. He squeezed the flesh and his own chest ached. 

 

"She dreams of a place that is underwater." 

 

"The whales cry in her ears, even when she is at rest." 

 

"She will return her affections to Piero in the morning. Tonight she feels that she is the most beautiful woman in all Dunwall." 

 

He clenched his fist, gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes closed. 

 

"She will never know how much she reminds him of a dead woman. But she knows her worth, deep inside, where her heart beats." 

 

He let the heart go, coiling his body back around Cecelia's slender frame. When the heart beat against his hand, cold and dead, his whole body ached. He would throw them all to the rats, only to make that heart warm once more. Because even a frightened, impoverished, serving girl was warmer than an Empress these days, and he saw Empresses everywhere. 


End file.
